


God's Worst Tenant

by makokitten



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bad Little Angels in Heaven, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-05
Updated: 2012-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-30 15:13:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makokitten/pseuds/makokitten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After dying, Jim Moriarty doesn't end up exactly where he thought he would.</p>
            </blockquote>





	God's Worst Tenant

* * *

            James Moriarty dies and goes to Heaven.  He finds out later that the only reason he ended up there was because all of the bad he did in his life was completely outweighed by his final act: ridding the world of himself.

            James Moriarty learns this sobering fact from the Voice of God, an intangible, inexplicable entity who is apparently inescapable in Heaven.  Jim also learns rather quickly that he’d rather be alone with his own black hole of a mind than have the Voice of God with him all of the time.

             _YOU HAVE DONE US AN ENORMOUS FAVOR_ , says God when Jim wakes up.

            “I don’t want to hear about it,” Jim mutters, covering his eyes.  He knows instantly where he is and what has happened to him.  Heaven is just convenient like that.

             _IF YOU HADN’T STOPPED YOURSELF, YOU WOULD HAVE INSTIGATED WORLD WAR III.  THE GLOBAL POPULATION WOULD HAVE BEEN DECIMATED_. _YOU HAVE SAVED THE LIVES OF MANY OF MY CHILDREN._

            “Okay, but could you shut up now?”

             _FOR THAT DEED, YOU HAVE BEEN GRANTED ACCESS TO ETERNAL PARADISE.  PLEASE ENJOY THE COMPLIMENTARY—_

“I said  _shut up_!” Jim shouts.  The Voice goes quiet.  He curls his knees to his chest, left to his own thoughts again.

            He falls asleep with his head on a cloud.  That’s infinitely preferable to thinking.

* * *

            Heaven, for all of its dreariness and peace, has one major perk—well, after the on-call masseuses and all-you-can-eat buffet that never makes you fat.  From the cottony clouds, Jim can lie on his stomach and peer down at humanity, kicking his feet in the air.  It’s like having a giant ant farm with a zoom function, since, as it turns out, he can focus on particular humans at will.

            “Did Sherlock Holmes end up here, too, or is he down below?” he asks God, peering at Earth.  Jim hasn’t met Sherlock up here among the angels, but he also makes a concerted effort to avoid most everyone else.  They’re all so Pure and Goodly.

            “It would be so ironic if he went to Hell,” Jim continues, munching on an apple that’s red as sin.  “I do have a thing for cosmic irony.” 

             _SHERLOCK HOLMES DID NOT DIE_.

            “Check your records, sweetheart,” Jim replies, crunching away without concern.  “I’m pretty sure Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.”  Swallow.  “And those poor King’s Men couldn’t put him back together again, you know.  All that.”

             _SHERLOCK HOLMES DID NOT DIE._

            “Nope.”  Another bite.  “You’re definitely fucking with me.  I know I was an atheist and all, but I do expect the same treatment as anyone else up here.”

            Abruptly, the world map shifts before Jim’s eyes.  He blinks, raises his eyebrows—“ _Woah_ ”—and, once he orients himself again, he’s treated to an image of Sherlock Holmes, standing on a street corner in what appears to be New York City, incognito and most definitely breathing.  Sherlock checks his phone, a nice, new phone, before pocketing it and going on his merry way.

            Well, that’s just cruel,” Jim murmurs, tossing his apple down at the image.   It bounces back up at him, striking the invisible barrier between Heaven and earth.  “Why would he do that to me?  That jacket is hideous.”

            But Jim can’t be upset that his final plan failed.  Something in the fundamental mechanics of this place prevents him from being upset, or angry, or jealous, or hateful.  Whenever he tries, he’s faced with an insurmountable calm, as ceaseless and infinite as an ocean.

            Heaven sucks.

            Instead of being upset, Jim curls up and sleeps again.  This time, he sleeps for years.

* * *

            Jim only wakes up because someone is shaking his shoulder.  Out of habit, he tells the person to piss off before even seeing who it is.  That remark only earns him a familiar response: 

            “Knock it off, boss, I didn’t come all of the way up here for nothing.”

            Jim opens his eyes.  Heaven is bright and he is very groggy, but he knows that voice and he knows that face.   He isn’t sure what he should be feeling—indignation, maybe, and relief, and sadness—but all he feels is that same insurmountable calm.  Probably because he’s trying to be something other than just plain happy.  “Sebastian?”  He sits up.  “What the hell are you doing here?”

            “Funny you should ask,” says Sebastian Moran, kneeling down next to Jim.   “After chasing Sherlock Holmes across four continents—I wanted to finish the job for you, sir, I honestly did—he finally got the better of me.”

            “Of course he did, he’s Sherlock Holmes,” Jim snaps, and although he sounds irritable he’s just a little bit pleased.  “So what happened, did he shoot first?”

            “Not really his style.  He got me thrown into prison and someone I’d pissed off years ago knifed me in the back.  Funny how the world works that way, isn’t it, boss?”  Sebastian shrugs.  “I ended up in Hell at first, but after it became apparent that you weren’t down there for some reason only God knows—”

             _HEH._

            “—I petitioned to get sent up here.  And you know how many good lawyers they have in Hell?  A _hell_ of a lot, no pun intended.  Eventually God just said ‘might as well send him to keep Jim company, that fellow’s given me too many headaches.’  So now I’m in Heaven with you and it looks like a mental asylum and no one will give me a cigarette.”

            “Well, of course not.  Smoking’s a vice.  Didn’t you read the rules?”

            “Hm.  What about cold-blooded murder?”

            “Another no-no, I’m afraid.  Besides, if you cut anything off, angels just grow it back.”  Jim gestures.  “Like starfish.”

            “Damn.”  Sebastian considers this.  “So I guess we can’t have sex.”

            “Oh, they’d be hard-pressed to stop us from doing that.”

            Sebastian smiles.   Jim begins to, but stops himself.  He’s not going to let God win by giving in to eternal contentment.  Instead, he says to Sebastian, “So, Heaven.”

            “Yeah,” Sebastian says.  “Looks like.”

            “How do you feel about that?”

            Sebastian looks down at himself, as if trying to look into himself and figure it out.  “I don’t really know.”  He mulls it over a bit more.  Jim can almost see the cogs turning in his head.  Cute.  “Happy, I guess.”

            “I  _know_ ,” Jim says.  “Isn’t it  _terrible_?”

            Sebastian laughs a little, and then they turn and look down at the earth, watching the shadows fall gradually across it as God closes the curtains on another day.


End file.
